


Natasha Romanoff: a study in red

by Gemz0rz



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Multi, basically snapshots, just go with it, non-linear, non-prose, prose, sometimes in between
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemz0rz/pseuds/Gemz0rz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes from the life of The Black Widow. Some dark, some not, some heavy, some dirty... inspiration is weird where Tasha is concerned, and these are headcanons turned drabbles turned ficlets. Most, if not all, can be found in some roughly-polished form on my Tumblr. These are not in chronological order, it should be noted. Maybe one day I'll rearrange them, but that day is not today.</p><p>As ever, all my love to my Strike Team Delta, without whom I very much doubt Tasha would ever bother to talk to me.</p><p>(...That's Sierra Delta Tango three, x)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take This Sinking Boat and Point it Home // Sierra Nevadas

She’d been cleared for active duty, but it didn’t escape her notice that it was a domestic mission. She wouldn’t have bothered to take offense — statistically, they could be needed here as easily as anywhere — but for the sound that Clint made in the back of his throat when he read the dossier.

Well, “read” might be giving him too much credit. The folder flopped back to the table, glanced at.

“California, boss? Careful, you’ll spoil me.”

Clint smiled indulgently, leaning back in his chair, but Coulson was as impassive as ever, his face free of readable emotion as he scooped up the discarded file. He was big on recycling.

“You do realise we’re being sent in to infiltrate a dummy corporation most likely hiding ties to a terror cell in India, yes?”

She arched an eyebrow, looking at her new partner sidelong, her hands in her lap. It’d become a habit at HQ; she’d noticed it made people less nervous if she kept them there, though she couldn’t ever recall Coulson seeming nervous around her. A formal version of irritated, yes. Appraising, frequently. But never something so telling as nervous.

“You do realise that it’s undercover, ‘ _yes_ ’? That means a hotel, not a piss-poor excuse for an outpost somewhere so remote that we’d stumble over Hoffa’s body before we found another living soul.”

Tasha blinked, taking in the basics of what his glee told her while simultaneously reaching for the context in that statement. It was something she did often here.

“Hoffa…?”

Clint rolled his eyes, deceptively lax. She knew he was already running tactics in his head, could almost see the cogs of his brain. He didn’t realise how much he telegraphed.

“Just say thank you, Red.”

* * * * *

The hotel was cushy, large and sprawling, and Natasha noted that an undercover mission in California was almost as far removed as you could get from anything they thought might trigger her. Anything Russian.

And she knew from the blabberings of another agent over the comms — before Coulson calmly ordered them to radio silence — that there was a general sense of surprise at the fluidity with which she and Clint accomplished their goal. It was a neat op, nearly as picture perfect as one could ask for when they worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., and no one seemed less impressed than Coulson.

That grated on her, both that he’d said nothing on the issue and that she found herself needing him to. Somewhere along the line in the last 6 months, she’d given up on trying to prove herself to everyone. Unlike the Red Room regime she was used to, not everyone’s opinion here meshed, or even mattered. She’d pieced together whose did — Clint’s, and the Director’s, and Coulson’s, among a few others — and had ignored most everyone else. Camaraderie was not a priority in her life. Not yet. Maybe not ever, though her psych eval said it would be good for her.

She was spared the indignancy of asking him, not that she ever would have, by the same mouthy agent who had been cool on the subject of Natasha’s inclusion and had thought he’d found an ally in Coulson.

“Agent Romanoff’s extreme proficiency does not surprise me, Smythe.” He said something else, too, something about Clint, but Natasha didn’t hear it. _Extreme proficiency_. Something that might have been a faint flicker of pride licked at her senses then, and though she tamped it down the way she’d been taught — humility was a survival tactic in Russia — she found that she could live with the satisfaction behind those words.

* * * * *

In the morning, the preliminary mission report was already typed and waiting on his desk. It held her signature, and, miraculously, Clint’s as well.

Phil’s hand didn’t hesitate over the page as he added his own.


	2. Don't Ask Me Why // Luxembourg

“This is what you do with your days off?”

The TV in the background was just noise to Tasha; she had no actual clue what movie he’d put on. All her focus — aside from when Clint occasionally slipped his fingers underneath the back hem of her shirt to stroke her spine — had been sunk into the cleaning of her twin Glock 26s.

“Sometimes.” It came out a little more defensive than she’d wanted it to.

“Gonna have to teach you to loosen up, babe.”

Natasha just glared at him for that, the nickname 70% of the offense, and to her credit, he looked away first. The corners of her mouth flickered upward in small triumph, and she slid the magazines back into their respective firearms, and then into their holsters.

When she looked back to Clint, he was watching the television again, and she hung the gunbelt on its designated peg and trod off in the direction of the kitchen.

The next thing he knew, Clint heard the creak of water taps being adjusted, and then the telltale rush of the showerhead. He peered over his shoulder, his eyebrows drifting higher as he realised the door to the bathroom was open.

“Tash…?” He set his drink on the little-used coffee table, politely turning his back to the open doorway as he neared the room. “Natasha?”

“In here.” Her tone was level, and maybe the tiniest bit smug, but Clint couldn’t be sure.

“Yeah, no shit. Uh, not that I’m looking or anything.” He tried to exhale some of the tension from his body, not used to feeling this unsure of himself. “Look, if you wanted me to leave, you could have just asked.”

He knew she’d seen a lot more than he had, and because it was healthier for both of them if he never tried to put himself in her shoes, he gave her a lot of space sometimes. This was a prime example.

But sometimes Natasha didn’t know what to do with all that space. She’d been grasping at straws trying to relate to someone on a non-professional level in the first place, let alone comminucate that. Most of the time she just felt undeserving of so much patience.

“Don’t want you to leave,” she said matter of factly, turning to rinse the shampoo from her long hair. Clint pinched the bridge of his nose at that, and she allowed herself a smile. “You can even turn around if you want.”

Her voice lilted at the end, and she mentally chided herself for forgetting not to sound so hopeful.

“…You sure?”

That wasn’t a no, and Tasha swallowed, the enclosure suddenly smaller, aware she was taking this step on her own.

“Yes.”

For the next six minutes, Clint leaned against the doorframe, watching as he was afforded a sight that some men would kill for. Without another word, Natasha rinsed the conditioner from her hair, wrang the excess water from it, and plaited it into a thick braid before stepping out into the towel he held out. Her eyes were inquisitive as she stepped into it, but his hands only skimmed her wet shoulders before his mouth tightened minutely and he stepped neatly out her front door.

She knew not to follow. He needed space and stillness sometimes just like she did.

*****

On the roof, Clint was unmoving, an exercise is statuary. Tomorrow Natasha would walk back into the luxury club in uptown Esch-sur-Alzette, and he would have to deal with that, even knowing in vivid detail how precious little her “uniform” covered. It was too late to consider what a bad idea it was to get involved with his partner, now it was just damage control.

Well, damage control and maybe a thought about next Tuesday.

Tuesdays were always her days off.


	3. Tonight Will Be a Memory, Too // Montréal

They were just over the border, surrounded by the eccentricities of Québécois life. She couldn’t say they were dating, but this was the third city they’d fucked in, and yesterday she’d dozed off with her feet in Clint’s lap. According to the clock on the wall, it had been for less than 10 minutes, but it felt like the most dangerous thing she’d ever done.

She didn’t hate him for it, that was the surprising part.

“Thought about rubbing your feet, but honestly I was scared to breathe.” He ducked his head, not used to expressing himself. “Thought every little thing would wake you up.”

His voice sounded tight, the way her chest felt as her pulse pounded at the thrill of what she’d done.

“I haven’t done that since I was small,” she admitted. Not since three nights after the fire that had changed her life.

“How old were you?”

His hands were on her feet now, his thumbs insistent against the arches, coaxing her into relaxing for him. She knew then that it thrilled him, too, that he wanted as much of it as she would give him.

“I don’t remember.”

Clint frowned.

“Come to think of it, how old are you now?” He held up a broad hand to stop her immediate answer before scrubbing it over his face. “And feel free to add a few years if the answer is gonna make me feel dirty.” She couldn’t be that much younger than him, not with all she’d seen.

“I don’t remember.”

Her smile was apologetic, not because she cared to know, but because his expression said that he did.

“Let me guess. Your birthday?”

“I don’t remember.” He said the words along with her this time. That explained why it wasn’t listed in her personnel file. He’d thought it was an odd thing to be classified, but it wasn’t. It simply didn’t exist.

“Don’t get sentimental on me, Barton. It doesn’t matter.”

Clint held up his hands in mock-surrender.

“I was doing no such thing. Just a shame you don’t get cake, is all.”

Tasha made a noncommittal noise, pulling her feet from his lap and moving to straddle him in a short sequence of fluid movements. His practiced hands settled on her hips then, and they found relaxation in a wholly different manner.

* * * * *

The next night when Natasha got back to the safehouse, she opened the door to dark.

“Clint?” Her voice carried into the townhouse, her Glock drawn before the echo had died.

“Don’t shoot, ‘s just me,” came a familiar grumble, and she holstered her weapon after a second.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t shoot, target practice. Why are we in the dark?”

He didn’t answer, just flipped on the lights. He was leaning against the wall, but he gestured to the table, where an unfinished game of Solitaire sat next to a white baker’s box. With a quirk of her eyebrows and a gesture of his head, she moved to open it. Inside, there was a generic cake, white with lurid purple decorations, “Happy Birhtday” spelled out across the middle. The typo told her he’d done it himself, likely in a hurry.

“Decided today was as good as any for a birthday.” She could feel the way he watched her, like she was one of his marks, and she closed the few feet between them to throw him off; she knew he was more comfortable at a distance.

“You didn’t have to.” She knew that he knew that, and she watched the weathered lines of his face, trying to decide why he’d done it anyway.

Clint looked at her for a long moment, his expression indiscernible — maybe she still had a lot to learn, when he was concerned — and stepped away from her, neatly cutting and plating two pieces before she felt like she could turn around and face him.

“They were all out of candles... sorry for the halfass presentation.” His tone was still tentative as he handed her a plate.

“You didn’t have to present anything.” She breezed by him, not taking it.

“Goddamnit, Tasha, you are the only person in the world who would be offended by a birthday party.”

“I’m not offended.” She almost threw the forks she was holding at him and stormed out, because she was pretty sure it wasn’t just her; Clint Barton did not understand women.

“Oh.” He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “…Oh.”

They ate their cake in silence, and she watched the icing turn his tongue purple, doubting she’d escaped the same fate. When she licked into his mouth less than 10 minutes later, candleless cake forgotten on the table, she tasted him beneath the sugar, same as he ever was.

It was the best birthday she could remember.


	4. Never and Always on My Mind // Kiev

The pale brunette slid down onto her husband’s lap, and even without the breathy gasp that spilled from the woman’s lips, Tasha knew from the way her flimsy knickers gathered to one side that the blonde had pushed into his wife in one smooth stroke. The brunette — Cécily — hooked her fingers under the strap of Natasha’s bra and hauled her close for a kiss before delicately manicured fingers pressed suggestively against the crown of red waves, guiding Natasha’s mouth downwards.

  
“Do we have time for this?” Tasha asked amusedly in flawless French, her tongue curving against wet lace. The woman in front of her murmured her appreciation, and her husband answered from over her shoulder.  
  
“We’ll be fine. We don’t leave for Toulouse until 6.”  
  
That was what she’d been waiting for, the last tiny piece of information they were good for, and with another playful swipe of her tongue, she excused herself. The telltale click of a stainless steel lighter filled the space before her first drag on the slim cigarette, and she watched as Anatole Farbre fucked his wife, knowing her absence would be missed.  
  
The brunette came in a flurry of French swears broken by her gasps, and Natasha smiled as she perched close, offering Anatole the cigarette as Cécily caught her breath.  
  
“Shower…?”  
  
The assassin let meaning colour her tone, and the pale Frenchman swooped up his wife gamely, headed for the sizeable bathroom suite.  
  
“Just going to put these away,” Tasha explained, shaking the box apologetically. “I’ll be right behind you.”  
  
* * * * *  
  
The couple lay at odd angles, tangled in the bottom of the deep tub. Natasha cranked the showerhead on, and crimson turned to candy pink as it swirled down the drain. They were traffickers that specialised in the procurement of young girls, and they had been so taken with the Russian who spoke perfect French that it had taken less than two weeks to coax out all the bits and pieces that made up their story.  
  
The only evidence of the twin shots she’d fired was a single cracked tile, but as far as mission expenses went, she knew accounting would be genuinely thrilled it wasn’t worse. Without pause, Natasha slid the silencer into her pocket and touched her ear delicately, the static crackle breaking just enough to confirm extraction.

  
* * * * *  
  
It was raining when she swung out onto the fire escape. Pink rivulets traced down her fingers, dripping in a miniature shower that quickly ran clear. Her gun was stashed out of sight as she climbed; she could feel the familiar weight of it in the shoulder holster beneath her jacket. The S.H.I.E.L.D. chopper hadn’t even secured a zipline down to the roof yet, and as far as Kiev went, it was like she’d never been there.   
  
But not for her. The city might forget, but she knew every step she’d taken, remembered them all… and soon she would be back to the only one who could help her forget a little of it.  
  
With a sharp yank, she zipped the fitted brown bomber against the spill of cleavage beneath and hauled herself onto the roof. Home was a dangerous concept, but that didn’t change the fact that he was waiting for her.


	5. No More Ever I Spoke // Amsterdam

“A gift?” It was a foreign concept; she did not have posessions, let alone anyone to give them to her.

“To teach you responsibility,” her tutor had told her. The tiny bird was a brilliant colour, its trill sweet and melodic, and in the stark steel-and-concrete industrial environment it stood out sharply, another jewel in the heart of Russia.

She named it Opal.

A few days later, in the gossip circles that were so strictly banned, Natasha heard the rumour of what Opal was really about. Right then, she promised herself she wouldn’t get attached. She stopped using its name, no longer fed it from her hand, pressed the lean pillow over her ears to muffle its song.

And still, over the course of the year, the flash of turquoise in the corner was the one thing she’d had to herself since she’d been brought here. It was the colour of the sky as she imagined it — the younger recruits so rarely saw the actual sky — but it didn’t matter because she owned it. She had the whole sky in a cage in her quarters.

And it sang for her.

* * * * *

_Her tutor broke the bird’s neck without a word, and Natasha knew they were waiting for her to react. She was already too good at witholding her emotions, she let nothing slip. But inside, something broke._

_And for a while, Natasha Romanoff forgot the colour of the sky._

* * * * *

She’d known he loved her long before he said it.

She could feel it in the way he absently combed the tangles from her hair with string-calloused fingers in the moments before he fell asleep. She could hear it in the way he said nothing, his breathing slow and even as a clock, unexpectant as he waited for her inner storms to pass after a mission struck a chord. She could taste it as he laughed into her mouth, that low, warm chuckle that did more to make her feel whole than anything she’d ever experienced.

But when he said it, when she finally couldn’t pretend that this was something else anymore… that was when she left.

* * * * *

_“Love is for children, Natalya.”_

_She’d nodded, her eyes darker than they had been a week ago. She wouldn’t forget the blue stillness at the bottom of that cage._

* * * * *

She’d gathered her things on a Monday, leaving a bottle of her favourite vodka for him to find, and had shipped out to Amsterdam on Tuesday for two months undercover. They had never needed words for everything, and she only came back to eyes that asked her if she missed home and hands that were far too reverent of her.

 _I can’t,_ she silently begged him to understand. _We can’t._

_Things die if I love them, Clint._

She’d already made her decision; she would not let him be that kind of target. Not when she didn’t even know if she was capable of love. She’d never been a child, after all.

* * * * *

When she goes to him a week later, her hair still wet from the shower, wearing SHIELD issue sweats two sizes too big, she kisses him and tastes the vodka she left behind.


	6. When We Were Alone // Stark Tower

Natasha has been with SHIELD long enough to know what the Red Room had done to her head. She’s seen her file. They can’t classify that from her, won’t try, and she likes them a little more for it. But she finds she has no recollection of half of the missions they’ve detailed her on over the years, which means that the organisation before them had sent her out and then wiped her clean when she’d completed the operative. Like she was some sort of fucking chalkboard.

When she needs an exercise in futility, she wonders where her childhood actually ends and the Red Room begins. She remembers Ivan, and the fire — how could she forget? — and her first ballet class. She remembers the shine of hardwood there, remembers the winter sun that filtered through the windows, remembers the gleaming silver barre.

Trust Stark to install one that looks just like it.

And maybe the truth is closer to the fact that most barres look the same, but it gives her enough of a reason to avoid the tower gym for weeks.

When she finally slinks inside the room that still smells of new plastic mats and metal, it is the middle of the night. Clint has been out of town on a solo operative for two weeks, and she has never been good at keeping herself company.

Her feet find their places before she asks them to, and she grits her teeth; how much of that is latent programming? Her pliés are easy and unstilted, each arabesque long and effortless. She moves to no music. She’s never needed it; maybe that’s programmed in, too.

The thought stops her like a bucket of cold water, and though the metal is warm beneath her fingers by now, she makes a noise of frustration and moves to wrap her knuckles in tape. As good as dancing feels, the punching bag will feel better right now, and the bruises she’ll have on her hands in the morning will be better still, if only because she knows who’s put them there.

She almost misses being a chalkboard. They are so much easier to clean.


	7. The Shorter Story // Miami

Natasha swam back through the sea of people, looking like a beacon in the crowded club. She was dressed the part: a shirt held together with ribbons and prayer, a skirt that would in some cultures be called a belt, earrings that could easily double as bracelets. The worst part was the fact that she could look into his eyes in the ridiculous scaffolding-disguised-as-stilettos she wore, but he knew she appreciated how they lengthened her stride when she ran, if not the way her thighs ached from their added weight at the end of the night.

She handed him his drink, eye on the DJ booth, and pretended to sip her own. A lurid LED-lit cube blinked at the bottom of the glass — and after a moment, she noticed the flare of light was beginning to fuzz.

“Clint…?”

Her tongue felt thick, and her partner immediately dropped the drunken frat boy persona he’d affected, leaning close to hear her over the throbbing music. A palm cupped her flushed cheek, thumb gently lifting her eyelid so he could watch her pupil react. It was a good indicator of what kind of time they had.

Neural responses were only slightly delayed, and he almost said a word of thanks in the Red Room’s general direction, because surely her re-imagined system was saving her from the worst of it.

“Think you can walk with me, Red?”

Her first nickname. The only one she hadn’t earned.

“‘M right behind you, Hawkeye.”

She grit her teeth together, purposely not drawing the only weapon she had on her, a tiny stiletto knife down the side of her shoe. In her state, it was safer not to give anyone stupid enough to attack them anything they could use against her, but she heard the telltale click of Clint’s safety being disabled.

They slipped out the back door — more of a stumble on her part, really — and he turned concerned eyes on her.

“I can call in medical if —”

“Eyes front and center, Barton.” She couldn’t tell if her tone was as menacing as she meant for it to be. “Just get me to the safehouse.”

She remembered maybe another block — the way she was sweating in the dense heat of the Florida night, the press of his fingertips in the spaces between her ribs as he tried to guide her without being snapped at, the way the cheap gravel crunched beneath her platforms — and then it was dark.

* * * * *

She woke to the steady beep of a drip regulator, the snag of tension at the back of her hand telling her where the IV went.

“…They waited til you were down to get the jump on us,” Clint said quietly, and Natasha forced her eyes to focus on the familiar shape of him hunched at her bedside. He looked plenty the worse for wear, with a black eye and a gauze bandage that began at his collarbone. She knew it wasn’t small; she could hear the tape crinkle beneath his shirt when he moved. His left wrist was splinted, so he set his chin carefully into his right hand, balancing his elbow on his knee.

“Backup got our man.”

She nodded, grateful for the efficient fill-in. It’s how she liked it, and he knew that by now. Stretching experimentally, she found that her ribs were bruised, but she ignored the pain in favour of sitting up. He made no move to assist her, smartly avoiding being accused of babying her.

“How…?” she rasped, only now realising how raw her throat was. He didn’t move, but his eyes drifted to her IV for a second.

“The entry stamp. Bastards had intel, apparently. Knew who you were. Still working out where they got it from, but… you know Coulson.” His gaze was steady, unwavering.

“Yes. I know Coulson.” Her smile was small and brittle; she was confident it would not be a long interrogation.

“Still… not exactly how I’d imagined spending the night,” Green eyes lifted to his, letting her gaze intimate her meaning. She was satisfied to see the tiny spark of relief in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turned up more at the realisation that he wasn’t about to get reamed for letting medical keep her overnight.

“Always tomorrow, Red.”

Natasha closed her eyes, nostalgic for maybe the first time in her life, and wasn’t surprised when she felt the brush of dry lips at her forehead.


	8. Oh, You Delicate Heart // Lisbon

“…and what makes you happy? General answers here are fine.”

“Excuse me?”

“Things you enjoy, Natalya. What does pleasure mean to you?”

“ _That’s not my name anymore_.”

“…Yes. Of course.”

What was enjoyment? It certainly wasn’t an endless grey block of a facility, converted for the moment for whatever purpose it had served before. She’d heard enough to know that the woman in front of her was usually stationed in Helsinki, but they’d set her up here in Portugal for the simple fact that it was further from Russia.

If she were honest, pleasure was knowing that she alone could move mountains like that. That they were afraid of what she was capable of.

But any idiot knew that knowledge was power, and just because she’d defected didn’t mean she was going to spill her secrets to an organisation who, for all intents and purposes, was keeping her prisoner in Lisbon.

At least it was warmer than Russia.

“I’m waiting, Miss Romanoff.”

There was a long staredown, and though Natasha’s expression didn’t change when the woman looked away, something that wasn’t quite triumph echoed through her.

“…Weakness. It means weakness.”

The redhead’s chin tilted, the change minute but defiant, and the SHIELD-sanctioned psychiatrist sighed and adjusted her jacket as she reached into her pocket for a pen.


	9. Like a Crack in the Wall // Minsk

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Clint’s face was exceedingly unamused.

“It would help if you quit bitching and jumped,” she said calmly, both guns trained on the door despite the sluggish trail of blood that trickled down her leg. The bullet hole was clean, and it had missed the major artery; it didn’t need her attention just now.

“I would, but I think —”

The archer had been in the middle of explaining how he thought there was vent shaft access to the roof when an axe burst through the very door Natasha had her eyes on.

“Is that…?” He stopped short as he realised they'd forgotten to remove the fucking _fire axe_ from the hall.

“In case of emergency.” She rolled her eyes, relying on her tactical boots as she kicked out the wide dormer window, satisfied in a twisted sort of way at knowing she'd been right. “Ladies first.”

* * * * *

Natasha and Clint streaked through the resort, their mission now to get to the extraction point while drawing the least amount of attention. Tasha could walk into anywhere carrying a hidden firearm and two or three blades, but there wasn’t a thing that could be done for that damn recurve. Of course, subtlety was near impossible anyway, since they’d just made a jump into the luxury pool from three stories up.

At least it had been heated.

Her smile was wide and manic as they made their way to the extraction point. They’d failed as lovers — and they’d failed at failing to be lovers, since Clint had darkened her door several times since she’d got back from Amsterdam and vice versa — but damn if this wasn’t what they were made for. They took out the guards easily, managing to keep the civilians from the crossfire, and at one point she could have sworn Clint even saluted to a group of onlookers.

But the local authorities were corrupt, and that meant extraction was Priority One.

They kept running, in near perfect sync as the whir of the Quinjet drew near.

* * * * *

“Here, let me.”

“It’s fine.”

“You did notice the gaping wound in you leg? Hand me have the scissors.”

“I can do it myself.”

“I’m well aware, but if you’d —”

_“Clint.”_

It was immediately apparent that the hovering staff were trying to look busy, and she lowered her voice, sinking the pre-filled syringe into a bicep and calmly bending to pull frayed bits of material from her leg. The ripping of linen echoed louder than it should have, and she concentrated on keeping the tension of pain from showing at her jaw.

“…I don’t need you to fix me.”

As the painkillers hit and she was shuffled off to the med bay to have the bullet hole in her thigh dressed, she hoped to God that that was true.


	10. The Killer in Me // Minnesota

_Minnesota_. Middle of fucking nowhere, Minnesota; that's where she was.  
  
And of all places, that's where they were, a copycat offshoot of AIM. They were little more than semi-professionals bored with academia, but they had the funds to buy muscle to back them up as they coded god knows what (her clearance only bought her so much, even now,) and it was easiest to stop them now.  
  
Well... "easiest" might be a little relative. She was slightly outgunned, definitely outmanned, and backup was still too far out.  
  
"Don't do anything stupid, Tash." Clint's voice crackled in her ear, and the handler -- not their handler, but some babyagent S.H.I.E.L.D. was trying out on what was supposed to be little more than a milk run -- belatedly agreed.  
  
"That's an order, Agent Romanoff." The woman's voice was very slightly accented, and Natasha rolled her eyes.  
  
"Now you've done it," Clint moaned, and went uncharacteristically silent. Later she would know that it was because he was trying to reach her in time.  
  
Natasha ignored the following query of "Agent?" in her ear and rolled out from behind the pallet she'd been using for cover, guns blazing. She took out the closest two guards simultaneously, near twin shots to the head, and clipped the throat of another before they even knew what was happening. The hired hands rushed in, and Tasha had time to think that maybe this had been something stupid before she flipped into action.  
  
One clip ran dry -- sixteen shots fired then, at least three quarters of them finding their mark -- and she stashed the other for emergencies, turning her Bites on the goon that moved to tackle her. With the help of her utility bracelet, she made it up to the industrial catwalk just in time for the muscle to get smart, and she felt the bite of buckshot along one calf.  
  
One glance down confirmed what she already knew: a shotgun. How original.  
  
It did its job, though, and when the thin metal of the catwalk perforated enough to twist, she knew she couldn't stall any longer. Natasha took a leap into space, relying on her instincts and knowing she didn't have much of a choice, and landed on the next agent. She may have twisted the hell out of her ankle, but as far as dismounts went, she really couldn't complain.  
  
She had time to break his neck before one got a lucky shot in, the bullet lodging in her shoulder.  
  
Tasha swore in Russian, and them comm must have been on, because she was acutely aware of Clint yelling back at her just before he burst through the door. He wasn't yielding his bow, the quarters were too close for that, and he looked distincty grumpy about it. Or maybe about her.  
  
Together, they took out the last half-dozen or so, and Clint slapped a pair of the brain trust in handcuffs for questioning.  
  
She limped toward him then, her injured arm held close to her body to keep the bullet from doing any more damage, and she saw him bite back his exclamations of concern. Despite the pain, she raised a questioning eyebrow, and he just shrugged, looking too tired and too lean after missions she knew had been booked back to back.  
  
"You look like hell, woman."  
  
Natasha gave him a ghost of a smile, paled by the pain behind it, and surveyed the wreckage around her. it wasn't good, but it would be one less battle they'd fight down the road, one with far more casualties.  
  
"Seventeen," was all she said in reply. A new record for her. She was alive, but more importantly, she was effective. She had purpose and talent and means. She might have been broken, but she was no one's woman, and she clicked off the admonishments of the handler, clutching her comm in her hand as she limped toward extraction.

Clint walked beside her and said nothing.


	11. Much Brighter Now // Las Vegas

It’s very rare that Coulson actively goes undercover anymore — but in the role of a wealthy business tycoon with a penchant for younger women, he can’t be beat. She doesn’t quite hate it, being curled in his lap, dripping in jewels, little more than accurate window dressing, but she would prefer being a key player. She always does.

“I’ll be at the bar for the next hour, Cecilia. Amuse yourself.”

She pouts, acting the part of simpering plaything to a tee, and hauls him in for a kiss. It’s deep and dirty, his hand dipping beneath the hem of her dress but respectfully going no further than they have to in order to make his point. The mark's eyes don't leave her once; if he didn't have a documented penchant for redheads, she'd be paranoid he had a positive ID on her. Looking up at Coulson through the dark fringe of her eyelashes, she licked suggestively at his lower lip.

“I’ll miss you.”

Code words. In half an hour, they’re lighting this place up.


	12. Breathe Air You're Not Used To // Wyoming

The first time Natasha is assigned a solo mission, she certainly doesn’t think of the partner she’s left behind. Agent Barton, the only person crazy enough to work alongside her.  
  
He’s dangerous, more dangerous than any of them, even the Director who sees more than he should be able to.  
  
Before, when she still belonged to Mother Russia, he was a gnat, an obstacle between her and her mark.  
  
When she had a chance to analyze him, he became an artist. He made shots that she would never have landed, but for all his mastery, he was still only a pretty, persistent thorn in her side.  
  
The day that Dmitry sold her out, when everything went to hell… Barton was Plan B. Not dying sounded preferable, and the warmth of his hand was easy to ignore in favour of the distrust in his eyes.  
  
Now... now he was the most cunning chess piece. Not the prize, but the enforcer. Certainly not a good idea, but an idea all the same.  
  
Not salvation, but close enough.


	13. I'm Not Here Looking For Absolution // Syracuse

The problem with Clint wasn’t that he missed things right in front of his face because he was too used to the luxury of distance, or that he usually displayed the emotional maturity of a 12-year-old.

No, the problem was that while he worked in a profession that was less than kind to his wardrobe, he did not believe in replenishing said wardrobe, instead nicking pieces from mission outfits and SHIELD-stamped sweats basics to round out his closet. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d encountered the slight lift of Phil’s eyebrow -- the one that said, “Yes, I’m well aware of what he’s wearing, but his circular reasoning on the topic makes me tired, and it’s not worth bringing up.”

Of course, she’s also regularly encountered the Phil Coulson eyebrow that clearly says: “Pot, meet kettle.”

Which is how they’ve all ended up quietly incognito to shop. Phil disappears straightaway; he’s lost a Burberry and a Dolce and Gabbana in the line of duty since their last shopping trip. (Which had been just before last Christmas, she remembers. An acceptable loss, two suits in all that time. Phil would probably beg to differ.) Natasha is convinced he hoards his tailor away from mere mortals, and his assets always let him go without following. He will come back later with suggestions for both of them -- jeans for Clint, maybe, that hit the precise note between smart enough to catch a knowing eye and deconstructed enough for his Hawk to actually wear them, and a jacket for Natasha that’s been carefully chosen for all the ways it can be modified to hold a weapons cache, or maybe a dress that magically needs no tailoring.

When he reconvenes with them two hours later, he’s replaced both suits plus one. A pair of Hugo Boss and one Armani -- a splurge for him. She wonders already what he looks like in it.

She’s gratified to know that she was right about the jeans for Clint, who grumbles about how good his ass looks in SHIELD-issue sweats, and designer denim is a crock anyway -- but a few words from their handler, whispered too low for even Natasha to pick up over the din of the sales floor, stem Clint’s arguments in their tracks.

Coulson’s choice for her has nearly the same result -- and then she is moving, the picture of grace and knowing that belie nothing of the split-second’s surprise at this venture’s choice. They make their way to checkout, the bags crumpling in the boot of her car, and then it’s familiar waters again, which means fighting over which Chinese to stop at and threatening Clint’s wellbeing in creative and escalating ways if he doesn’t get his damn boots off her dashboard.

In the back, tucked inside a nondescript black box, a bra and panty set lay tucked into seafoam tissue paper, a delicate lace contrast in gunmental grey.


End file.
